The Thing
by Lampito
Summary: Dean and Sam run into two old acquaintances. When it becomes apparent that Dean is the only one who hasn't slept with a werewolf, he pesters Sam and Andrew for details - he is the Living Sex God, after all, and they've hinted that he's missing something.
1. SomeTHING Is Wrong With My Baby

You people. I mean, really, you people... the regular Denizens of the Jimiverse are a merciless lot. I make some throw-away comments in the last chapter added to 'Prince Charming', by way of explanation, and the Denizens turn them into plot bunnies. I was trying to clear some things up for you, in an amusing fashion, but can you leave it at that, nooooooo, you have to take things I said under the influence of Not Enough Chocolate and shove them though your Plot Bunny Synthesiser, and throw them back at me! Have you no PITY? Have you no COMPASSION? OH THE HUMANITY!

All right, here's the premise. This story is set in the Jimiverse, and includes my OC, Ronnie, who was only SUPPOSED to be someone to annoy Dean with. Sometime after the end of 'Prince Charming', against all odds she ended up pair-bonded (his name is Andrew) and dropped off the radar to avoid Hunters. Until the Winchesters ran into them unexpectedly one day. While the menfolk drink and crash cars on the Playstation, it becomes apparent that Dean is the only one who hasn't slept with a werewolf, and Sam and Andrew hint that he might be missing out on something mind-blowing. Naturally, he pesters them mercilessly for details, after all, what do you expect a Living Sex God to do?

All right. So I'm writing it. I hope you're satisfied, you, you, you SADISTS!

**Disclaimer:** Not mine, if they were I'd have set myself up as a brothel madam and pimped them to rabid fangirls by now. And I'd be typing this from Monaco, or maybe somewhere in the Bahamas.

**Title:** The Thing

**Summary:** After some car trouble, Dean and Sam run into two old acquaintances. When it becomes apparent that Dean is the only one who hasn't slept with a werewolf, he pesters Sam and Andrew for details - he is the Living Sex God, after all, and they've hinted that he's missing out on something mind-blowing.

**Rating:** T. Because this product may contain traces of Dean.

**Blame: **Lies ENTIRELY with the slave-driving, unrelenting, cruel, insistent, brutal, ruthless, relentless people that I refer to as the Denizens, regular Visitor/Reviewers to the Jimiverse. They are unashamed breeders, trainers and cross-oceanic catapulters of BLOODTHIRSTY PLOT BUNNIES! THEY WILL NOT STOP UNTIL THEY HAVE THEIR FANFIC! CUUUUUURSE YOOOOOOU!

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><p><strong>Chapter 1: SomeTHING Is Wrong With My Baby<strong>

"What's the matter, Baby?" Dean spoke tenderly to the Impala, patting the dash, while Sam rolled his eyes.

"Dean," he began, "It's a machine, you can't ask it how it's feeling…"

"Shut up! My baby isn't feeling well. I just know it," pouted the older Winchester, frowning at the temperature gauge. "She hasn't been herself all morning. See that? She's running a fever."

Sam dutifully peered at the gauge. "It isn't in the red."

"But it's hotter than she usually runs," countered Dean, still frowning. "We're stopping next place we find, so I can find out what's wrong. You hang in there, girl," he added, patting the dash again. Sam humphed, and fished out the map.

The next stop, Cascade River, was a reasonably large sized town for mid-east Oregon. Dean pulled the Impala into a roadhouse on the outskirts, and spent the entire break worrying and catastrophising about what could be wrong with his baby.

"She's not blowing smoke, so she can't be burning oil… besides, the oil's not going anywhere… it's not the head gasket…it can't be the pump, I'd hear that, and she'd get a lot hotter a lot faster…"

"Dean, can you try to calm down, bro?" urged Sam, interrupting the running monologue of potential mechanical disasters.

"How can I be calm when my baby is sick? I could never be calm when you were sick, now you expect me to be calm when our girl is sick?" Dean was starting to sound slightly hysterical. "There was no puddle of coolant before we left this morning… oh my God," he looked up suddenly, "What if it's not mechanical? What if she's possessed? Sam, what if some asshole spirit is possessing my car?"

Sam tried to stay reasonable. "Dean, it's the Impala, it can't be possessed…"

"Oh yeah? You never read 'Christine', then?"

"Dean, nothing, _nothing_, could get past the wards," countered Sam, convinced he could feel a headache coming on, "Look, finish your burger, then you can go look at the car and you'll figure out what's wrong, then you'll fix it. Get a piece of pie. Everything will look better after pie. Everything will be fine. The car will be fine. Why am I talking to you like I'm the paediatrician and you're the parent whose kid has eaten a snail? Get a grip!"

Dean glared at him. "She'll be cooled down, now, I'm going to see what's wrong with my baby." He stalked out of the roadhouse, trailing a miasma of grumpy. Sam sighed, and opened his laptop. He might as well as try to make progress on their next case: it was a strange one, victims disappearing during the new moon, their corpses being found some days later having been battered to death, then bled out, with pieces missing. Sam had found a connection with a deceased couple who had been linked to the disappearances of itinerants on their farm in the 1930s; a tramp's body had eventually been found in a similar state to that of the victims now turning up. Dean told him that it was a confused werewolf who didn't know how to read a calendar, or a wendigo on a diet.

His further inquiries were curtailed when he heard the shout of "Sonofabitch!" from the parking lot, followed by the slam of the hood. Dean stomped back into the roadhouse, and slumped back down in the chair opposite Sam. Sam cocked an eyebrow at him.

"Radiator", sighed Dean, looking angry and sad and forlorn and pissed all at once, "There's a damned crack in the radiator. She's leaking coolant. Slowly, but it'll only get worse. Damn. Where the hell do I find a replacement radiator for a 67 Chevy here?"

"Could it be repaired?" asked Sam.

"Possibly. A crack can sometimes be soldered up, but it's a hell of a job to do properly. Even if we could make it to Bobby's I don't know if I could pull it off." Dean sighed again, looking defeated. "I think I need that pie." The kindly older lady who took his order couldn't help but ask what was wrong as he ordered his pie. With cream. And ice cream. And only one spoon.

"Oh, it's my car," he said, reminding her of a little boy who's just found out that his very favourite toy is broken, "The radiator's cracked, and I don't know how in hell I'm going to fix her…" he smiled ruefully at her. "Unless you sell radiators for classics here, too."

"Sorry, hon, just the pie," she smiled back, "But if you can wait a minute, I'll ask my husband – he's just as attached to his Mustang. He courted me in it. My father hated it." Dean smiled at that.

A couple of minutes later, an older man with a nametag labelling him 'Lou' came out of the kitchen with the pie, and a card. "Here you go son," he said. "May tells me you have a problem with your baby out there." A pained look crossed Sam's face as he identified another car lover with _The Disease_.

"Yes sir," said Dean wistfully, digging into his pie, "Cracked radiator." The man flipped the card down onto the table. It had an address and phone number written on it.

"You want to try this place. Changed hands a few months ago, and the mechanic is no slouch. There's a welder there too, now, does very good work. If they can't do a repair on it for you, nobody can – at the very least, they'll be able to source you a replacement." He cast an anxious look at the Impala in the lot. "How bad is she leaking? It's several miles - can she get there on her own, or do you want me to call 'em for you, get her towed? They'll get out the flatbed for a classic lady like yours. You can trust 'em, they've taken good care of Sophie for me a couple of times."

"I think she'll make it. We'll call if she doesn't. Sophie's your Mustang?" grinned Dean. Lou grinned back. _The Disease_, thought Sam. _There is no cure. _

"Sure is. When you get there, you tell 'em Lou sent you, and if they don't do a damned good price, I'll spit on the damned pancakes next time they come in." With another grin he disappeared back into the kitchen.

Dean humphed into his pie. "Well, it's a start, I guess. We can see what they can do, how long it'll take, how much…"

"If it's too much, we can always call Bobby," Sam reassured him, "He'll come get us, and you can find something at the yard."

Ten minutes later, they were on the road and headed for the workshop, Dean crooning encouragingly to the car, and Sam gritting his teeth and wishing for some aspirin.


	2. SomeTHING Unexpected

**SomeTHING**** Unexpected**

The auto shop rolled into view, and Dean pulled into the parking lot. The double doors into the workshop were closed, which seemed strange for a Friday afternoon.

"Are they closed?" wondered Sam out loud.

"Let's find out," said Dean, getting out and heading for what looked like the office. A bell over the door clinked, and a man in overalls entered from the workshop, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Afternoon, what I can do for…" he started, then stopped, gaping at the Winchesters. "Sam? Dean?"

"_Andrew_?" the brothers gaped back at him, and he broke into a grin.

"Large as life, and twice as hairy," he confirmed. "Three times at the full moon."

"Dude!" exclaimed Sam, "What are you doing here?"

"Working. It's an auto shop. That means, we fix cars." deadpanned Andrew. "It's called 'making a living'. I realise it's probably a bit too close to 'normal' for your liking, but for some of us, 'normal' is almost all we've ever known, give or take the odd werewolf bite."

"Speaking of 'we'," started Dean, waggling his eyebrows at Andrew, before he was cut off by a stream of swearing, delivered in a broad accent, from the workshop. Andrew smiled. "Yep. She came with me." Dean started to smile an evil smile, but Andrew put a hand on his shoulder. "No, don't. Any other time, I'd say go scare the hell out of her, but she's casting right now, and you don't want to mess with molten metal. Come on in, just stay out of the way."

In a corner of the workshop, a robust figure bent to a crucible over a small gas furnace, wearing a leather apron, long gauntleted gloves and a visor. Andrew approached, shouting, "Hey looky here! They followed me in. Wanna keep 'em?"

The figure stood back, and flipped up the visor. A scarred face stared at the Winchesters, and an exasperated expression spread over it. "Oh, fuck me…"

"Not if you're still with him, darlin' ", smirked Dean flippantly, while Sam pulled Bitchface #11™ (I Am Appalled By Your Behaviour Dean, I'm Pretty Sure One Of Us Was Actually Adopted). "Hi Ronnie," he added.

"Be right with you, fellas," said Ronnie, "But I've just hit molten, so if you'll excuse me…" she turned back to the furnace, picked up the crucible with a long pair of tongs, and started to pour the spitting contents into a mould on the floor. The metal hissed and sparked, dribbling neatly into the small holes, until the crucible was empty. Ronnie shut down the furnace, and the cooling equipment pinked with the dissipating heat. "Right, that's done. I need a drink. Don't stand there, Andrew, fetch the beer. Beer! Fetch!" Andrew rolled his eyes, and muttered "Woof" under his breath, as he headed for a battered refrigerator. "So, what brings Tweedledum and Tweedledee Winchester here?"

"Well, we didn't come looking specifically for you," said Dean, accepting a beer from Andrew, "We've got a cracked radiator, and Lou at the roadhouse said…"

"That was you?" Andrew's expression was suddenly serious. "He called here earlier, said a guy with a classic had a radiator problem and he'd sent you our way… there was some threat about spitting on our pancakes…"

"Don't just stand there," said Ronnie, frowning, already at the control and opening up the doors, "Get her in here and let's see what the damage is." Dean handed his beer to Sam, and went to bring the Impala into the shop. When it was inside, they had the hood up, and the three of them hovered like anxious aunts over a sick toddler. Sam watched bemusedly: Dean was pointing and waving his arms around, Ronnie was peering and nodding and frowning, Andrew was fetching tools and shop rags and asking questions. _The Disease, it can strike anywhere…_

"It'll have to come out," pronounced Ronnie, "I can solder it for you - yes, I am that good - but it'll have to come out for me to do a proper job on it."

"Okay then," said Andrew, "We let her cool down, drain the system, flush it out…"

"The radiator has to be dry on the inside," said Ronnie, "We can get it nearly dry with the air line, but we'll have to let it dry overnight just to be sure. There can't be any water, or the solder won't bond. This has to be done right." They both looked sympathetically at Dean; he looked stricken, but nodded in agreement.

"Why don't we just go sit down and have a drink and wait," suggested Andrew, herding Dean in the direction of the back room. Like a doctor on the children's ward shepherding a worried parent into the waiting room, thought Sam: _I'm sorry, Mr Winchester, but we're going to have to operate on your girl, we're just getting her prepped now…_

"Er, don't you have work to do?" asked Sam, "You know, the fixing cars, making a living thing?"

Andrew took a swig of beer. "Weeeeeeell, we don't do a lot of that on Friday afternoons," he said, "Except for the odd case of emergency surgery. Fridays usually finish up with… other things."

"What sort of other things?" asked Dean, waving his beer in the direction of the furnace, "What have you been up to here? You're not running a counterfeiting racket, I hope, I thought you were a fine upstanding citizen for most of the lunar cycle, Andrew…"

"Not exactly," explained Ronnie. "Casting silver rounds." She took a drink, and paused before she continued. "It's not easy to do well, as you'd know. Much more difficult to do than lead. Harder to cast, harder to finish. But, what can I say? Mad metalworking skills – I has them. My Dad put the gas axe in my hands for the first time when I was nine years old. Hunters pay good money for well made silver ammo. Mine is real good. Hollow points. Usually the esteemed R. Singer takes care of my distribution, but I could do you a deal. Mate's rates, even."

"I thought you'd retired, Ronnie," said Sam.

"I have. More or less," she replied, a small, slightly sad smile on her face. Andrew put a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up at him, as they exchanged a wordless communication. Sam and Dean couldn't help smiling to themselves.

_What did you expect? __After all, werewolves pair-bond for life._

They drank, and talked, waiting for the Impala to cool down, about things the Winchesters had ganked, and about Andrew and Ronnie's move to a new place and a new start. The place was doing well: Andrew was good at what he did, and Ronnie really was a damned good welder. To all intents and purposes, they were just another couple running a business, making a living.

"So, how is civilian life?" Sam asked Ronnie later, as Dean and Andrew set about removing the Impala's radiator.

"It's not as easy as it looks," she conceded, "I mean, I never did completely 'normal' to start with, my Daddy started training me up for the Hunt when I was seven. Now, there's a house. A home. And a vacuum cleaner. I hate vacuum cleaners. They're intrinsically evil. They're possessed. Andrew wouldn't let me exorcise it, but I did anyway…"

Sam smiled at that. "Did it help?"

"No. But it made me feel better."

He laughed outright at that. "So, you two. Things are, well, good?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him, then smiled her gorgeous smile. "Yeah. Things are 'good'. Things are better than good." She looked into the workshop, where Dean and Andrew were double-teaming the radiatorectomy. "What are those two doing?"

"Dean's probably grumping at Andrew for touching his baby inappropriately" explained Sam, "He's been positively irrational about this all day."

"Well, some of us relate to machinery better than we relate to other humans. Or almost-humans," replied Ronnie. "So, which theory do you like for your current job? The dyslexic werewolf, or the wendigo on a Weight Watchers program? How many diet points is a surveyor worth, anyway?" Sam groaned, and Ronnie pointed him at the office desk. "Wifi hotspot right there, fire up your laptop and I'll give you the password." Sam shot Ronnie a grateful look as he went to fetch the laptop.

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><p>Reviews keep the author's histrionics and melodramatic hissy fits down to a dull roar.<p> 


	3. A Mysterious THING

**A Mysterious THING**

"So, how's it going here for you two?" asked Dean, wrestling with a hose clamp that had demonically tightened itself since he'd installed it. Possession – he was definitely going to check the wards protecting the Impala before they headed off to their next job…

"Pretty good," said Andrew, shoving a drain pan of coolant out of the way, "We do good business here, and news like Ronnie gets around."

"I hope you mean the welding."

"Yeah, I mean the welding", smiled Andrew. "Hunting isn't all her Daddy taught her. She's damned good – that good, takes a talent. Although frankly, I think some of our regulars just like to listen to the accent."

"So, welding, and making silver ammo, huh?" asked Dean.

Andrew sighed. "And making silver ammo," he agreed. "It's been hard for her, going from 'Hunter' to 'As Normal As You Can Be When You're A Werewolf'. She tried to convince me the vacuum cleaner was possessed – I'm pretty sure she exorcised it."

"How about you? Going from Normal to As Normal As You Can Be When You're A Werewolf?"

Andrew paused thoughtfully. "I'm getting control of it – I'm not as good as Ronnie, I don't know if I ever will be, but… I'm getting some control. Meanwhile, I have Ronnie to keep me in line, just in case." He paused again, smiling to himself. "I gotta tell you, though, the first time I woke up naked and chained to a pipe in the basement with her grinning at me, my mind went somewhere else…

"Aha, I knew she'd end up being kinky," stated Dean, "She's the dominant alpha female type. It's the ones who look like prudes on the outside who will surprise you every time." With a final cussword the hose clamp came loose. "So, you two," he continued, "Apart from basement shenanigans, you, er, getting along okay?" He waggled his eyebrows and smirked.

Andrew fixed him with a level gaze, but a smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. "Dean Winchester, whatever can you mean?"

"You know, you and Ronnie, pair-bonded, as a couple…" he paused – "Domestically, and, er, everything?"

"Domestically, you'd be surprised, although I can't really see her making her peace with the vacuum. As for 'everything', well, really, Dean," said Andrew, with a wide and slightly smug smile, "Would you expect a gentleman to tell you?"

"Hey, I'm not pushing for details," Dean continued cheerily, "Well, actually, I'd be happy to hear details, for educational purposes of course, but, well, a guy can't help but wonder, you know… a werewolf…"

"So, in your Hunting career, and string of one night stands across the country, you've never slept with a werewolf, then?" asked Andrew.

"Not me, no. Sam has, but not me. Although I might've done without realising it…"

"Oh, you'd have noticed something." said Andrew.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Ohhhh, yeah."

They worked in silence for a while, then Dean asked, "How?"

"What?"

"How would I know a girl was a werewolf?"

Andrew appeared to consider the question. "You'd better ask your brother. I'm really not one to discuss the details of, um, after-dark activities." He paused. "Beyond saying there can be a certain amount of howling involved. And not necessarily from her."

Dean's eyebrows shot up. "That… interesting, huh?"

" 'Interesting' is one word that would fit, sure."

"What other words would fit, then?" Andrew remained silent, seemingly debating with himself. "C'mon, man," Dean pressed, "You can't leave me hanging like this, it's cruel and unusual!"

Andrew appeared to make a decision. "Okay. Words like: Rampant. Insatiable. Creative." He paused. "Exhausting." His eyes took on a peculiarly introspective-yet-faraway look. "Female werewolves… she does this… Thing…"

Dean's eyes bugged. "A… Thing?"

Andrew turned the introspective-yet-faraway look at him, and slowly smiled. "Yeah, this… Thing…"

"What sort of… Thing?"

Andrew's mouth opened and shut a couple of times. "It's… impossible to describe." He sighed heavily, then leaned towards Dean conspiratorially. "Last week, I swear, I nearly passed out, then slept for twelve hours straight…"

Dean swallowed a couple of times, and Andrew appeared to shake himself. "No," he said, "Don't ask. Ronnie would kill me. No, I'm really not going to discuss it. And for God's sake, don't ask her if you want to leave here with your gonads still attached to the rest of you. Ask your brother."

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><p>Reviews are the Nekkid Deans in the Sauna Of Life.<p> 


	4. Some THINGS Should Stay Private

**Some THINGS Should Stay Private**

When the radiator was finally flushed and cleaned and drying on the workbench, Andrew insisted that they stay as house guests with him and Ronnie. "C'mon, guys, the beds will be cleaner, the hot water will last longer and the heating works. The food's better, too. Ronnie will make pie, won't you Ronnie?"

"Pie?" asked Dean hopefully.

Ronnie waved a hand airily. "Oh, yes, you'd be amazed at how domesticated I can be. My paternal grandmother was a very traditional woman, that way. Gammer Shepherd had some Very Definite Ideas about the set of life skills a young lady should have; how to cook, how to sew, how to pack salt and iron cartridges, how to knit, how to draw a Devil's Trap, how to make her own pastry, how to throw a passable jab-cross combination, how to recite exorcisms in at least three dead languages, how to brew a counterspell in a hurry, how to bottle fruit, how to dance a waltz, how to cast her own ammunition, how to repair her own firearms, how to get stains out of delicate fabrics…"

"Your grandmother sounds like an interesting lady," remarked Sam.

"Family lore has it that she once drove a wendigo to gnaw off its own arm to get away from her tirade of abuse. When she chased after it, the poor thing set itself on fire to escape the tongue-lashing."

"Does she still Hunt?" he asked in admiration.

"No, she died when I was sixteen. A next of vampires. Took down four of them before the rest got her. The ones that fed off her all died later. From bile poisoning."

"Would you really make pie?" said Dean. Ronnie pulled a face at him.

"Oh, please, leave the kicked-puppy eyes to your brother, he's much better at it. But yes, because you've been so traumatised by your baby's health problems, I'll make pie, to help you recover."

The house was about 20 miles out of town, on a sparsely populated road. Inside, Ronnie set to doing mysterious things in the kitchen. She shoved a bowl into Dean's hands, and another into Sam's. "Outside," she said. "Apples in that one, apricots in that one. He who labours not, eats not."

Out back, the brothers headed for the small stand of fruit trees, while Jimi followed them for a joyous reunion with his sister Joni. Having ascertained that there were no potentially evil scarecrows anywhere – "Hey, you can't be too careful, little bro" – they took their time with the strangely domestic activity of picking fruit. Sam shoved an apricot into his mouth.

"Mmmmmm, these are really good. I wonder if Ronnie would give us some for the road when we go?"

"Sammy, if it's not in pie, then fruit, like vegetables, is what food eats", stated Dean, twisting another apple off a gnarled branch. He paused for a moment, then asked hesitantly, "Sam?"

"Yeah?" Sam ate another apricot.

"Um… when you were… withMadison…"

Sam suddenly stiffened, and his expression became guarded. "Hey what brought this on?"

Dean did his best to look conciliatory. "Hey, hey, don't shoot me! It's just… well, seeing Ronnie again, with Andrew, I've been wondering… was there anything, you know, different about her?"

Sam eyed him suspiciously. "What do you mean, different? Dean, she was a werewolf! I'd say that was pretty damned 'different'!"

"No, no, that's not what I mean," explained Dean hurriedly, "I mean, before you knew she was a werewolf. When you were… you know, together, was there anything…?"

Sam gave him Bitchface #5 (My Private Life Is SO None Of Your Business, Jerk.) "Look, Dean, you might like to compare notes on your conquests, but I'm just not wired that way. I'm a prude, you keep telling me, and I need to get laid more often, remember?"

Dean's face fell. "I'm sorry, Sam, I shouldn't have pried. Hey, I can't help it, you know? I _am_ wired that way." He gave his brother a conciliatory smirk. "You never really talked about it much. And you're the one who likes to talk about things, right?"

"Yeah, I guess I am," said Sam, somewhat mollified. He grinned to himself.

"Hey, what's that grin for?" asked Dean.

"Nothing. Private memory," said Sam, still grinning.

"You're not holding out on me, are you, bro?" pressed Dean. Sam just kept grinning.

"She was… energetic," he said, finally. "Maybe I didn't have a lot to compare her to, but she was… enthusiastic. And imaginative. I do know that I slept like a log afterwards." He slowly picked another apricot, clearly lost in a memory. "She did this… this… Thing…"

Dean's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "A… Thing? What sort of Thing?"

"A… a… _Thing_…" Sam waved his free hand around helplessly. "It's difficult to describe…"

"Try."

Sam's eyes cleared, and he actually shook is head. "Hey, some things should remain private, okay? Even from big brothers. _Especially_ from big brothers. You want porn, go see if Andrew has cable."

"C'mon, Sammy, you can't just leave it at that, tell me about the, the Thing..." wheedled Dean.

"Have you filled your bowl?" asked Sam primly, turning back to the house. Swearing under his breath, Dean grabbed a couple more apples, and followed him.

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><p>Reviews are the Nekkid Sams in the Chocolate Sauce Factory Of Life.<p> 


	5. We Know SomeTHING You Don't Know

**We Know SomeTHING You Don't Know**

Sam spent some time communing earnestly with his laptop, and Dean and Andrew started a game of Army Of Two on the Playstation, while Ronnie did "Secret Women's Business Bugger Off You Lot" in the kitchen, glaring daggers at anyone who encroached on her domain (after Sam was swatted on the butt with a spatula, the menfolk stayed the hell out of the way). When dinner was served up, it appeared to consist of an enormous amount of food.

"Hey, two werewolves under the same roof," explained Andrew.

"What's that?" asked Dean suspiciously, poking a serving spoon into a large dish of what looked suspiciously like vegetables.

"Ratatouille", replied Ronnie.

"Does it really have…"

"NO," she cut him off and slapped at his hand, "It does NOT have rat in it. This is not a Monty Python sketch. Don't play with your food."

"Pot to kettle, pot to kettle, calling in Code Black, over…" cackled Andrew, suddenly gulping into silence as Ronnie turned to him, holding a large carving knife.

"Watch it you," she threatened, then turned her attention back to the large roast chicken on the table. "So, Dean," she smiled sweetly, lifting one eyebrow and cutting into the bird, "Are you a breast or a leg man, and do you fancy some stuffing?"

Dean choked on a mouthful of beer. Sam and Andrew laughed at him. Ronnie positively_ leered_ at him, and patted him gently on the back. "Something wrong, dear?"

Later, there was pie. Glorious pie. Pies, plural, one apple, and one apricot. When asked to choose, Dean's eyes swivelled from one to the other, like a kid who couldn't decide between two equally desirable toys. Rolling her eyes, Ronnie cut him a piece of each, and plonked the plate down in front of him. Watching him attack his dessert, Andrew asked Sam, "Are you sure he doesn't have any werewolf in him? Because he sure eats like one…"

"Hmmmmmmmmm… I think we'd have noticed by now," concluded Sam.

After dinner, Ronnie announced that she was going to work on her current project, a demon-killing knife, leaving the menfolk to clean up, then amuse themselves.

"I think I might have found something," said Sam, referring back to his research, "A connection between the victims and the Hendersons' farm. Apparently, they were thought to be a bit weird by the locals, having some strange theories about land management and crop planting…"

"Sounds like geek boy's brain is stuck in gear," sighed Dean, "God forbid he should do anything that might be FUN." Sam glared at him, and shoved more plates into the dishwasher.

In the end, they retired to the lounge and fired up the game again, pleasantly buzzed from the beer. After a while, even Sam relented, took a controller, and joined them for Twisted Metal.

Man, this is the life," declared Sam, slouching contentedly back on the sofa, toasting the ceiling with his beer and burping gently, "I could get used to this."

"It aint half bad," agreed Andrew, putting his feet up. "The catering is good – Ronnie really is a good cook…"

"The pie, the pie, I could stay for the pie," added Dean. He looked at Andrew. "Does it ever make you feel, you know… domesticated?"

Andrew considered the question. "Yeah, sometimes, a bit, but… it's worth it. The whole package, definitely worth it. The catering, like I said. Including the pie. And the company, I really like that bit." He smiled to himself. "Yeah, that bit's really good."

Sam waved his beer at Andrew. "Andrew, you know Ronnie's a, a, werewolf?"

"Yeah," said Andrew carefully, "I kind of found out the first time she beat the crap out of my hairy ass and dragged me down to the basement…"

"And chained you up…" Dean reminded him, leering slightly.

"Yeah, and chained me up… heh heh… ahem. Yeah, I know she's a werewolf, Sam. So am I, in fact. Really. A shock, I know, but there it is."

"Don't mind him," said Dean, "He can't hold his drink, and he asks silly questions under the influence."

"No, no," continued Sam, still waving the bottle eloquently, "What I mean is…" he leaned toward Andrew and asked in a low voice, "Has she ever done…" he cocked an eyebrow at Andrew, "Has she ever done, some… Thing…?".

Andrew stared at him for a moment in confusion. Sam looked just a little smug. "I've slept with a she-werewolf, you know," he announced, "And I wondered if… if… they all do… that Thing…"

Understanding suddenly dawned on Andrew's face. "Ah, right, you mean… the, the Thing…"

"Yeah." A lewd expression that Dean didn't ever think he'd see on his baby brother's face appeared and Sam said, "So, what do you think of the… Thing?"

Andrew smiled widely. "Never you mind, young Samuel," he intoned, "It's not the sort of thing… the sort of Thing, heh heh… that ought to be discussed out loud."

"Why not?" demanded Dean.

"It just, it just, you know, isn't," continued Andrew. "You can talk about it later with your brother. I'll get into trouble."

"No, I can't," Dean burst out, "Because I don't know and neither of you assholes will tell me what the… the Thing is!"

Andrew and Sam looked at Dean with a mixture of pity and amusement. "That's really sad," Andrew said eventually. "It's like… it's like… what would you say it was like, Sam?"

Sam considered this carefully. "I'd say it was like… " he gave his beer a final wave, and gave up. "I can't put it into words. Sorry," he said to Dean, defeat all over his kicked-puppy face.

"It could possibly, just possibly, be described as… as…" Andrew went on, gesturing encouragingly at Sam.

"Yeah, as, as… yeah," agreed Sam.

"Like having your brain sucked out through your dick," finished Andrew.

"Just like that, only completely different. Hee hee," went Sam, hiccupping gently.

Sam, you have to find him a willing she-werewolf," instructed Andrew, "For educational purposes."

"Is there any other sort of she-werewolf?" asked Sam archly, and he and Andrew laughed together as if sharing some private joke. Dean slouched into the sofa and scowled, muttering insults under his breath, as Ronnie walked in.

"Are you boys playing nice?" she asked, seeing two giggling faces and one pouting one. "Dean, don't pout, the wind will change and you'll be stuck like that. Actually, belay that order, it's kind of cute…" Andrew and Sam laughed again, and Dean humphed, straying perilously close to infringing on the Bitchface trademark. Ronnie continued, "It's late, and we have a wounded Impala to tend tomorrow, I'm going to bed. Don't stay up with the Playthingo too late. Anyone hungover in the morning will be harassed mercilessly."

"Okay, okay, we've got one level to go, then I'll be right up," said Andrew, smiling up at Ronnie as she put a hand on his shoulder. She sighed theatrically.

"Really, I'm insulted. I thought I'd be at least as entertaining as a car crash game. There are some _things_ that computer games can't do," she huffed, twitching an eyebrow at Andrew before heading out of the lounge. Sam and Andrew exchanged A Look, and Dean twitched slightly.

"Er, look, I'm tired too, I'll leave you young folks to crash cars, just turn it all off when you finish, okay?" Andrew said, getting up to follow Ronnie. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah, see you in the morning," said Sam, muttering under his breath, "You lucky bastard."

"What?" demanded Dean. Sam smiled angelically at him.

"Nothing. You want to finish this level?"

"No, I'm going to bed, too." growled Dean. Sam followed him to the guest room, where they went through the familiar routine of bickering about use of the shower, changing, and settling into the twin beds, Dean in the one closer to the door.

"He's right, you know," said Sam, "This is better than the places we stay on the road. I fit in the bed!" He boinged up and down on the comfy mattress, then sighed contentedly. "Night, Dean."

"Night Samantha," mumbled Dean from under the blankets.

A restful quiet descended. Sam started to snore gently, enjoying the luxury of stretching out full length to sleep. Dean considered throwing something at him, but couldn't bring himself to do that to his giant baby brother. Sam was right; it was a comfy place to stay. Full of beer and pie, he started to drift off.

Then he heard The Noise.

Faint, but insistent, and strangely repetitive.

_creak-thump..… creak-thump….. creak-thump….._

It was barely audible. Someone without a hunter's instincts would probably never have picked it up at all, but now he'd heard it, he couldn't stop hearing it.

_creak-thump..… creak-thump….. creak-thump….._

And he had no idea how long he'd been hearing it.

_creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump….._

Coming from upstairs at the other end of the house.

_creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump….._

From a lifetime spent in cheap motels with thin walls, he knew what caused that sort of noise – he'd caused enough of that sort of noise himself – but after a long, vexing and in parts infuriating day, it was too much. He groaned, and put his head under the pillow.

"Whassup, Dean?" asked Sam sleepily from the other bed.

"The noise, Sammy, the noise… nooooooooooooo" moaned Dean, his voice muffled from under the pillow. Sam listened, then grunted.

"Dean, it's barely audible, you have to concentrate to hear it, and we've slept through worse. Go to sleep, bro." Dean heard him roll over, and settle again.

"Jeezuz, Sammy, how am I supposed to shut out… _that_?"

"Calm down, will you?" sighed Sam, "It's not like it's anything _you_ haven't done a thousand times before. Just ignore it."

"Ignore it?" asked Dean incredulously. "_Ignore_ it? Sam, they're…"

"I know what they're doing, Dean," said Sam, irritably, "It's their house, and we are guests. I thought I was supposed to be the prude, here. What are you doing listening in, anyway, you perv? You wanna borrow my iPod?"

"No, it's full of crap," countered Dean.

"Then relax. Count sheep. Hum Metallica. Just SHUT UP and go to sleep." That, apparently, was Sam's final word on the subject. Shortly afterwards, the gentle _snaaaark_ing snore started again.

So did The Noise.

_creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump….._

Dean settled into his bed. Sam was right, he was being irrational. He'd just relax, and ignore any extraneous noises…

_creak-thump….. creak-thump….. creak-thump….._

_Snaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl_

Dean's eyes shot open. Had he just heard…?

_creak-thump….. creak-thump….. snaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrl… graaaaaaaaarrrrrrrrl…_

"Sam?" he called in a loud whisper. "Sam!" He got no reply except another gentle 'snaaark'.

_creak-thump….. snaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrl… THUD…_

He felt rather than heard what sounded suspiciously like a body being shoved against something.

_snaaaaaaaarl… __grrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr SNAAAAAAAAAAAARLLL!_

"Sam!" he called more loudly, "Sam, I can hear growling!"

"Hmmmmm?" asked a sleepy voice from the other side of the room. "Wha', Dean?"

"I can hear growling, bro! I swear, I can hear growling!"

Sam sighed audibly. "Can' hear an'thing. Not our bi'ness. Shut th' fuck up, go slee'."

Dean couldn't let it go. "Sam, it was growling. _Growling_. What the hell is going on up there?"

Sam yawned, and laughed, already half asleep again. "She prob'ly doing... Thing… lucky bastar'… snaaaark…"

_creak-thump..… creak-thump….. creak-thump….._

Jimi went "Hrrrrrmph", and snuggled into his blanket on the floor, apparently completely unconcerned by any noises.

Dean pulled the covers over his head, and whimpered softly. The Thing, the Thing… his imagination was starting to cause him some, er, discomfiture. He found himself getting some seriously intriguing mental pictures. Damn it, now he couldn't stop thinking, wondering about the… the frigging Thing!

_creak-thump creak-thump creak-thump creak-thump_

If he'd known, he'd have gone looking for some female company. Or even, you know, in the shower... At least he wouldn't be here, listening to

_snaaaaaaarrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrl_

Please, please, he found himself pleading to the universe, make it stop (_the Thing_), make it stop...

… and then, he heard The Howl.

It was a deep-throated, full-bodied howl, starting somewhere in the bass-baritone range, and making its way to tenor. It spoke of lust, longing, belonging and wild abandon, a great crescendo, a _climax_ of a howl…

It was a howl from a human throat…

… it ended with what sounded like a gasping sob, then the house was quiet.

Dean wasn't sure if he really heard the quiet, feminine chuckle (_the Thing, the Thing_), or if his imagination added that bit.

"Sam?" he called softly.

"snaaaaaaark…" Sam was no help – he was still asleep.

Dean let out a serious humph – it really had not been his day, it really had not. His Baby was injured, and that had really worried him a lot, he was never happy when the Impala was off the road, and his brother was holding out on him, and he'd just been forced to listen to a couple of werewolves pair-bonding, and those two _total_ assholes _still _hadn't told him what the T_hing_ was, although it appeared that he'd just been forced to listen to it taking place…

Tomorrow, he promised himself, tomorrow, he would corner Sam, and, if necessary, he would beat an explanation (_the Thing_) out of him…

Dean got out of bed, and headed for the kitchen, to get a drink of water. And stop wondering about the _Thing_. And maybe eat a piece of pie. Pie could fix a lot of things (t_he Thing_). The chronic political tensions in theMiddle East could probably be solved if everyone there would just sit down, and eat enough pie…

* * *

><p>To the tune of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik, let's all thing, er, sing!<p>

Thing, thing thing, thing thing thing thing thing thing! Thing, thing thing, thing thing thing thing thing thing,  
>Thiiiiing thiiiiiing, thing thing thing thing thing thiiiiiing, thing thing thing thing thing thiiiiiing, thing thing thing thing thing thiiiiiing,<br>Thing thing thing thing thing thingthingthingthing thing thing thingthingthingthing thing thing thingthingthingthing thiiiiiiing...


	6. Did You Want SomeTHING?

**Did You Want SomeTHING?**

Dean was sitting at the kitchen table, halfway through a slice of apricotty goodness, when a quiet voice behind him said, "Are you still… hungry?"

He whipped around to see Ronnie standing there in a singlet and pyjama pants, smiling at him. He realised that he'd never seen her with her hair loose before. It was serious headbanger material. She looked… tousled. Interestingly tousled.

"Oh, er, hi, Ronnie," he stammered. He'd forgotten how damned quiet she could be.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked him, sitting beside him.

"Um, no," he admitted. "I thought I'd just come out and get a drink. And a snack. I hope it's okay."

"Of course it is," she reassured him, smiling again, and moving, he thought, just a bit too far into his personal space. "You're a guest here, and it's a host's duty to make sure that a guest doesn't leave… unsatisfied."

There was something (_Thing?_) odd in her tone, he thought; it must've shown on his face, because she drew back slightly, looking almost hurt. "It's okay, Dean," she said, "I'm nothing to be afraid of. I don't bite. Well," she continued, smiling again, and leaning back into his space, "Okay, I do bite, but not unless you want me to, but only with my human teeth, and I don't leave marks… usually…"

Dean smiled uncertainly, and shuffled his chair sideways. She followed him. "Er, okay… this pie is really good, Andrew's right, you are a really good cook."

"I have many talents, Dean," she purred, leaning on his arm and inhaling deeply. "Mmmmmm, don't you smell good…"

He leapt up from the chair with a squawk. "Um, you know, I think I might just go back to bed," he stammered, scooting around to put the table between them. Ronnie grinned, showing rather a lot of teeth, he thought, and fixed him with a stare that was uncomfortable.

"I don't believe this. Dean Winchester, are you trying to play coy?" She slunk towards him. "You once tried to seduce me. You were so keen, you chased me up a tree."

He circled the other way. "That was under the influence of a curse!" he said. "Look, Ronnie, I don't know what you're thinking…" he began, but she cut him off with a short, sharp snarling noise.

"I don't _need_ to _think_, Dean. I could hear your heart thumping from upstairs, then I come down here to find you positively stinking of lust, I know what that means now. I have Denned. I have taken a mate… oh, that's adorable, "she commented as he swallowed a couple of times, and backed up again. She smiled. "You want me to chase you? You like to be… pursued? I can do that." She was suddenly on the table, crouched like a wolf ready to pounce, chewing at her bottom lip.

"Ronnie… Andrew…" he tried again, "What about Andrew?"

"Andrew?" she waved a hand dismissively. "He's out cold. He'll be asleep for hours yet. Poor thing, sometimes I just wear him out. Don't worry, I won't let him hurt you."

"Yeeergl," said Dean, his eyes bugging. He made a dash for the doorway, but she was too quick, springing off the table to pin him against the wall before he made it halfway. She put her face to his neck, and sniffed deeply again. Disturbingly, there was something uncomfortably arousing about the way she pinned him and did that…

"You're real alpha male material, aren't you, Pheromone Boy?" she crooned appreciatively, as he tried to twist away from her. "Dean, what's the matter? I won't hurt you. I promise I won't hurt you," she said in a gentle voice, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "I promise. That is, "she leered up at him, "Unless you'd like me to, just a bit…"

"Ummmmmmm," he squirmed desperately, but that only made her giggle.

"Oooh, do that again!" she laughed, pressing herself against him, "I like that! Oh, so do _you_, apparently…"

"Yeeeeeeep!" To his horror, he discovered that it was kind of, well, enjoyable in a completely inappropriate way, then she snapped the waistband of his sweatpants playfully, and he cursed the part of him that couldn't help itself, no matter _how_ inappropriate the circumstances were… damn it, she was someone else's partner, and this was a time to be thinking with the Upstairs Brain! And_ not _about the possibilities of some very enjoyable activity with an apparently enthusiastic woman, and definitely not about the… Thing! Oh God, the _Thing_… Think, think… she was a werewolf, and he couldn't break away from her, and trying only seemed to encourage her…

"Sam!" he gasped, slapping at her hand as she tweaked the hem of his t-shirt, "Sam! He's a very light sleeper! He'd be traumatised forever! I don't want to wake up Sam! Really, I don't want to WAKE UP, SAM!" he raised his voice, willing Sam to wake up and come to investigate. She frowned at him, and clapped a hand over his mouth.

"Shhhhhh, keep your voice down, or you will wake him up! And you don't really want an audience, do you? No?" He shook his head for 'no', and she let go.

"Don't play shy with me, Winchester," she rumbled, "I know you've looked at me. In that Goodwill wedding dress. You wondered just how many tatts I have, didn't you?" She ran a finger slowly down his chest. "I could _feel_ you looking at me. I'm quite a specimen, aren't I? You wondered what _this_… " she paused, stretched, let muscles in her arm and chest bunch and move in a _most interesting_ way, "… would be like."

Damn. Guilty as charged. She smiled, a predatory expression, at his silence.

"You've never been with a she-werewolf before, have you?" He shook his head again, and she smiled,_ leered_, at him. "I can show you something, Dean. You might've done it doggy-style, but you've never done it wolf-style…" she leaned in close, her teeth nearly brushing against his ear, "If you like, we can pretend I'm forcing myself on you. There's this…_ Thing_ I can do…"

"A… Thing?" he squeaked, thinking _No, no, no, this is not happening…_

_…really, the… Thing?_

She stepped back suddenly, and changed as he watched, her features becoming lupine and feral, her hand extending to extrude claws, Jesus Christ, she was going wolf… she growled, and slashed at his chest. Four neat, parallel tears shredded his t-shirt. As quickly as it had happened, she was fully human again, her arms pinning him to the wall once more.

"Oh, Dean, I'm going to make you _howl_ …"

_Oh, God, the Thing, the THING…_

"NO!" he practically shouted at her, summoning all his strength and pushing her away from him. "No! Ronnie, this is not going to happen! I don't know what's gotten into you…" she smirked, _smirked_ at him, and chewed her bottom lip again, and he groaned, "Er, poor choice of words, sorry… I don't know what you're thinking, but this is NOT going to happen! You are…you are Andrew's mate! I've seen the way he looks at you, the way you look at each other! You're a pair! Pair-bonded! I might be a womaniser, Ronnie, but you don't mess with another man's woman, you just DON'T!" She hesitated briefly, and he continued, "Yeah, okay, I might've looked at you, Ronnie, you're something else, and, and, the… Thing… oh God, the… Thing… but you'll hate yourself tomorrow. I don't mess with someone else's woman, Ronnie, never someone else's woman! Never! I won't!"

"Damned right, you won't," said a voice from behind them. Ronnie stepped back from him with a snarl, and Dean saw Andrew standing in the kitchen, bristling with anger. His face looked similar to the half-transformation Ronnie had undergone moments before, fangs showing, and he radiated rage. Now, she stepped between them, facing Andrew, snarling, her face becoming lupine again.

"Don't get in the way when an alpha female is hunting, dear, I thought I taught you that. Go back to bed."

"I will, woman, I will," he snarled, "And you're coming with me, just as soon as I've dealt with this damned _human_…"

"Hey, find your own prey, I'm hunting younger meat tonight!" she shouted back – was she _pouting_? - "Or just go back to sleep, you lump! Don't think I'm doing that_ Thing_ for you again tonight, you've interrupted my fun." She stepped back towards Dean, grabbing hold of his arm possessively.

Dean looked around frantically for an escape, a weapon, _anything_, to extract himself from the middle of what appeared to be a brewing werewolf domestic dispute that looked like it might escalate to serious violence, or serious sex, either of which could be equally deadly. It had truly been a day that totally sucked ass. It couldn't possibly get any worse…

Until, of course, it did.

"Guys? What's all the noise?" Sam appeared in the doorway, rubbing sleep out of his eyes, then looking blearily at the scene before him, asking bemusedly, "What's going on?"

"Sam!" yelled Dean, throwing his brother a beseeching look, "Get out of here!" Training took over, and without a word Sam disappeared. _Good boy_, thought Dean.

Sam was back before either of the werewolves could react. "Nobody move!" he shouted, brandishing his…

Cell phone?

_*click*_

He took a picture.

"Okay, I got it," he said casually, inspecting the photo, and handing the cell to Andrew. "What do you think?"

Andrew took the phone and studied the photo critically, his face completely human again. "That's amazing. That's really amazing. You've captured the whole 'rabbit-in-the-spotlight' expression perfectly. The resolution on these things these days is unbelievable. I should upgrade."

"Let me see! Let me see!" chirped Ronnie, letting go of Dean and bouncing over to where Sam and Andrew were studying the phone. "Awwww, that's such a cute picture, he looks like he's just got out of bed and realised he's late for school…" she glanced back to Dean. "I hope that wasn't a favourite shirt."

Dean stood where he was, his mouth opening and shutting, trying to work out what the hell was going on.

One minute, he was about to be raped by a slavering sex-crazed nympho she-werewolf.

The next, he was about to be torn to pieces by the very angry mate of said slavering sex-crazed nympho she-werewolf.

Then his brother was… _taking a picture_?

"Gnaaaagh", he said.

"Close you're mouth Dean," said Ronnie, "You'll catch flies." The pie was still on the kitchen bench where Dean had taken it out of the refrigerator. "Anybody hungry?"

"Oooh look, pie!" said Andrew happily, reaching for the knife to cut himself a slice. "Anybody else?" Ronnie put her hand up and looked hopeful. "What about you Sam?" he asked through a mouthful of crumbs. Sam made an umming noise, unable to decide.

"HEY!" Dean found his voice, and it was full of bewilderment. "WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?"

Sam turned to look at him. "I took your picture," he said. "You wanna see it? Yeah, Andrew, I'll have pie. Nuh-uh," he continued, snatching the phone out of Dean's reach, "I'll send it to you if you wanna see it. You are not deleting this one. It's pure gold."

"Have I just been…" Dean breathed, "Have I just been… _pranked_?"

"See?" said Sam, "I told you he'd figure it out pretty quick."

"Yeah," said Andrew, "I guess you can't be a Hunter and be dumb. Ow. Ronnie, I think I hurt my back falling off the bed…"

"Well, you shouldn't have jumped so high. "Jump a bit and make it creak," I said, not "Try to bounce yourself into orbit". You were like a five hear old. Anyway, I think he was just adorable," added Ronnie, licking fruit from her hand, "That whole "You don't mess with someone else's woman" bit, that was just so, so gallant. Who'da thunk it? Under that man-slut exterior beats the heart of a gentleman."

Dean stared at them, from one to the next. "Sam," he muttered quietly, in deadly tones, "You are dead. You are so dead…"

Sam pulled a wounded innocence look. "Hey, it wasn't my idea, it was Andrew who told me about your unwholesome interest in the, er, company of lady werewolves."

"Yeah, but Sam was the one who said, let's run with it," countered Andrew, in an 'it-wasn't-my-fault-really-it-wasn't' tone. "I just piqued your inappropriate interest. He came up with the details, blame him."

"It's your own fault, Dean," scolded Ronnie, "Serves you right for taking an unseemly interest in other people's private lives. We have cable, you could just have watched porn."

"I hate you all," Dean muttered, sinking into a chair at the kitchen table, putting his head in his hands, "I hate you all so much…"

"What's up, Dean?" asked Sam in a concerned voice, "Is someTHING wrong? SomeTHING bugging you?"

"He looks a bit pale," conceded Ronnie, peering at Dean, "Dean, would you like someTHING else to eat?"

"He looks like he really needs someTHING to drink," said Andrew. "You drink bourbon, Dean? I think I have a bottle of someTHING up here…"

"Silver ammo," said Dean between clenched teeth, "I need silver ammo, it will kill werewolves, and sasquatches, for that matter…"

"Oh dear," said Sam sympathetically, "I THINGk you'd better make it a double, Andrew."

"Culling little brothers," Dean continued to mutter, "It wouldn't be homicide, really, it would be pest control."

"I'm going back to bed," announced Ronnie, yawning. Andrew put an arm around her.

"Good idea. We'll see you in the morning, guys. And we promise not to do anyTHING that might keep you awake."

"Fuck off", said Dean.

* * *

><p>One day, researchers will figure out why being horrible to Dean is so much fun.<p> 


	7. Some THINGS Never Change

**Some THINGS Never Change**

The household slept until past sunrise, then breakfast was a jovial affair for three of the four participants. Dean was not in a mood to forgive or forget. Even the most innocent use of the word 'thing' made him scowl angrily.

"Come on, Dean, snap out of it," coaxed Ronnie, putting coffee in front of him, "Today we'll fix your baby, and you'll ride off into the sunset, and get back to saving the world from the fuglies, one Hunt at a time."

"While screwing your way across the country, one attractive woman at a time," added Sam. Dean gave him A Look.

His mood improved slightly when they were in the workshop, watching Ronnie at the task of soldering up the Impala's radiator. "Come and watch," she told Dean, plugging in the iron and choosing a rod, "You might have to do this one day." He had to admit, as he watched the solder melt neatly and precisely into the leak under her practised hand, she had a talent for it.

When she was satisfied that the job was done, she left Dean and Andrew to re-install the radiator, while Sam pecked away at his laptop. By the time she got back, the Impala was sitting outside the garage, running without leaking, and Dean's mood had improved considerably. As a bonus, Sam was pretty sure he'd figured out why corpses were turning up bashed, bled and partly flensed during the new moon.

"The Hendersons were exponents of a theory of permaculture of their own devising," he explained over lunch back at Andrew and Ronnie's place, "It was a blend of organic gardening, and mumbo jumbo, but it seemed to work. Old Bill Henderson swore by a blood and bone mix he made to a secret recipe. The farm thrived, and they won prizes for their vegetables at the State Fair every year. Nobody got suspicious when tramps started to disappear after the Great Depression – until a body was found. It turns out that the Hendersons had decided that using human blood in their compost would impart a stronger 'energy' to the farm, and make it even more productive. For maximum 'energy', the 'organic material' had to be collected at the new moon. The victim that was found had been bludgeoned to death with shovels, bled, and had the more accessible pieces cut off to go into the mix. Due to a lack of adequate evidence, they were never charged, and the farm thrived until they died in the 70s."

"So, why is this happening now?" asked Dean, "I still like my wendigo-with-a-body-image-problem theory."

"The land has recently changed hands, been sold to a large agribusiness company, for the purposes of being used as test fields for synthetic fertilizers," replied Sam. "I'm guessing that Old Man Henderson is horrified at the thought of his prize-winning bio-organic farm being used as a test bed for chemicals. They're buried together in a local cemetery, should be a simple salt and burn."

"There's no such thing as a 'simple' salt and burn," corrected Ronnie, "The damned occupant always shows up and gets annoyed when you try to set their mortal remains on fire."

"Well, I think we can handle it," said Sam, "Dean has a hard head, so it's not like being thrown into a headstone and given one more concussion is going to damage anyTHING important."

"Sam…" rumbled his brother in a warning tone. Sam grinned infuriatingly. "My revenge will be terrible," Dean continued, "It will be terrible, you will not see it coming, you will not know what hit you…"

"If you do that, I will send that photo to Bobby, complete with an explanation of why you are standing there, with your hair sticking out all over, your shirt torn, wearing an expression like a deer in the cross-hairs…"

Dean glared at Sam. "That's… that's blackmail!"

Sam looked hurt. " 'Blackmail' is an ugly word, Dean, let's say it's just an incentive for you not to start another stupid prank war."

"Look who's talking!" spluttered Dean as Sam grinned again. Andrew dropped a calming hand onto each of the brothers' shoulders.

"Now now, you two, do I have to put you in time out, or are you going to play nice?" he asked with a mock frown, amusement in his eyes. Dean just humphed.

As they were stowing their gear in the Impala, preparing to leave, Andrew handed a box to Sam. "For the road," he explained. "Ronnie doesn't want you to die of starvation between now and your next stop."

Sam peered into the box. "Wow," he said, "This is what a werewolf calls a snack box?" Andrew nodded. "Well, the pie might improve Dean's mood a bit. I think it'll be a while before he forgives me…"

Dean rediscovered his manners, and the brothers shook hands with both Andrew and Ronnie, thanking them for the help. "No worries," said Ronnie, "Anytime you're passing through, drop in."

"Yeah," echoed Andrew, "If you need anyTHING…" Dean looked pained. Sam tried not to laugh, and failed.

"Oh, I nearly forgot," continued Ronnie, "Here, Dean, this is for you." She handed him something wrapped up in a plastic carry bag.

"Er, thanks," he said. "Okay, Samantha, time to hit the road, and go and dig up your blood and bone man." The Impala's engine settled into a comfortable rumble, and pulled out onto the tar. With a beep and a wave, they were underway, watching Andrew and Ronnie disappear in the mirrors.

**...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... ...oooooOOOOOooooo... **

"Ronnie packed us food," said Sam, indicating the box on the back seat, where Jimi sniffed curiously at it. "We'll eat well tonight. Possibly tomorrow as well. There seems to be a lot of pie in there." Dean grunted non-commitally; it was going to take more than pie, even Ronnie's pie, to forgive and forget this episode.

"What did she give you before we left?" asked Sam.

"No idea, I didn't open it," replied Dean. "It's sitting on top of the box. Is it ticking?"

Sam reached over to the back seat and picked up the small package, squishing it experimentally. "Feels like fabric," he remarked.

"Probably harmless, then," replied Dean, "Open it up."

Sam opened the bag. It contained a t-shirt, and a small note. He read the note aloud:

" 'Dean, I owe you a t-shirt. Hope this one is okay. R.' " He shook the shirt out, and smiled widely, holding the shirt up for Dean to see.

"What the hell are you grinning at?... oh."

Ronnie had found him a Three Wolf Moon t-shirt.

Dean let out a pained sigh. "Did I mention recently how much I hate you?"

"Not in the last ten minutes or so."

"In that case: I hate you."

"Oh, what's the matter Dean?" asked Sam, "I think it's a nice gesture, replacing your shirt."

"…really, really hate you…"

"You don't like it?"

"…"

"SomeTHING wrong with the design?"

"Shut up!"

"Awrooooooooo!"

"SHUT UP, Samantha, or I will seriously give you something to really howl about!"

"AWROOOOOOOOOOOOOO!"

I'll put you in the trunk!"

"You wouldn't!" exclaimed Sam in horror, his eyes going wide, his face shocked. "You wouldn't do such a THING to your baby brother…"

"I hate you."

**THE END**

* * *

><p>There, I hope you're happy now. One more plot bunny stomped. Hopefully, I'll have a bit of a breather before the next one comes along, although there are some fairly insistent little buggers telling me that I must write some more about the gargoyles in 'We'll Wing It'.<p> 


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